


My Heartbeat in Yours (Your Breath in Mine)

by ThisUsernameTaken



Series: beat in step we breathe in time (oh say to me that you'll be mine) [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tags Are Hard, Tags Subject to Change, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Work In Progress, this is a mess please look away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:39:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: It is an awful thing, to cry out with no one there and nothing to hurt him. (It is an awful thing, to hurt all the same.)Stephen felt his chest splinter. Tony's fingers shake. The answer lies over their pulses, but neither dare to look.Or: a soulmate au where the pain of your soulmate is felt as your own.--It was the initials on his wrist, scrawled in boyhood cut short, inked black capitals stark against the dawn. Soulmates, then. They stared up at him, as if in laughter.A.E.S.





	1. A.E.S.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [your pain in all my veins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803232) by [mish_mish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mish_mish/pseuds/mish_mish). 



> EDIT, 4/1/19: Directly below is the first (first) chapter, written and published July 2018. The dashes signify the end of the first and that of the next; the same chapter rewritten April of next year. I do hope I've improved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT, 4/1/19: Directly below is the first (first) chapter, written and published July 2018. The dashes signify the end of the first and that of the next; the same chapter rewritten April of next year. I do hope I've improved.

We have all known pain in our lives, be it our own or that of others. It’s bearable, of course, humanity having evolved to adapt, to endure, to survive. It passes, as all things do, like clouds over the sun.

And yet.

And yet we hurt, and hunger, and grieve. For what is humanity, but pain? Fate is not known to be kind.  
So, naturally, she had to go and make you feel the pain of your Soulmate as well.

Stephen is only four when the first strike falls.

How odd, he thinks, to have his pudgy fingertips fizzle and pop and sting, how utterly strange that he should burn, rather than be held close in loving arms and sung to sleep.

Stephen is only four when the first strike falls, and it’s... _worse_. So much worse. Worse than the phantom pinch of sparks, worse than the poke of an unaccounted for screwdriver in the dark. He is only four, when his head snaps to the side with a crack, and he begins to wail, breakfast forgotten.

Thinking back on it, when he still thought about it, when he still cared; he wondered in horror how anyone could ever do such a thing to one so young. Stephen had only been four when the first strike fell, his soulmate just as young, if not younger. He brings his hand to his cheek, lips parting in a pantomime of a scream.

He'd stared hard at the initials inked in neat black capitals on his wrist from the moment he understood what they meant. Tall and proud, if not a bit rushed, they stared right back, stark against his pale skin.

**_A.E.S._ **

 

**_\--_ **

 

It is an awful thing, to cry out with no one there and nothing to hurt him. (It is an awful thing, to hurt all the same.)

****

There are bruises on his elbows and an aching in his jaw. At night his ears pop, and by day his fingers sting. The lingering taste of grease hangs around him-- a smoke to his throat he can’t cough out. 

****

None of it his. (But it is, they do; belong to him, haunt him, pain him.  _ Made for him _ .) 

Why, then, must he cry? 

****

Maybe it was the Universe, maybe it was Fate, twirling red strings into knots as she laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It was a phenomenon. It was a curse. (It was why he’d flinch when his mother went to caress his cheek, it was why his father’s shadow would terrify him, even as he lay enveloped in his arms.) 

****

It was the initials on his wrist, scrawled in boyhood cut short, inked black capitals stark against the dawn. Soulmates, then. They stared up at him, as if in laughter.

****

**_A.E.S._ **


	2. Bruise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you name chapters?? Is there like an edgy song lyric generator out there somewhere?

 

**Stark men are made of iron.** The words, edged with steel, punctuated in a fracture of broken glass, echo in the recesses of his mind.

 

There's a tweak at the side of his mouth, soft but serrated, as he fiddles with a gauntlet, flexing the fingers in admiration. Gold-titanium alloy, more like.

 

He picks the screwdriver out of his mouth, about to dive into the mindless repairs, when he gives pause at the sight of his work roughened hand. 

 

It's been a while since the blood-strung throes of fate had crossed his mind. They do now.

 

He kicks at the ground; gives the chair a little spin. What the fuck ever, right? 

He, whose life was shaped by pain, having never felt the slightest of scratches from the other end of the spectrum. He, whose hands have crafted death, he who had suffered beneath the hold of those who wished to wield it. 

 

He, who made his soulmate's life a living hell. 

 

After all, he's nearly forgotten what it was like to truly  _ breathe.  _ Several inches of metal pressing on your lungs tend to do that to you. 

 

He should be grateful he feels little pain but his own, right? Guilty that he's wrought so much agony on a stranger so unfortunate as to have won his initials in the lottery of life. 

 

He is, most days, when the constant whirlwind of the world slows, when he's given time to catch his gasping breath in the eye of the storm. 

 

Now, though? He feels an explicable bitterness, clawing up his throat, thrashing behind closed teeth.

 

He'd been seven, when he first felt the scrape of knees on asphalt. It barely registered, but when he deigned to notice the burn of his palms, he rolled his eyes.  _ Finally.  _ Howard had cut his childhood short, his tactile nature batted away, nonexistent affection curling into a hard ball in his chest, cold and heavy.

By his standards, his soulmate was swaddled from the world.

He'd stared at his hands, the ornate curvature on his wrist, thinking. 

 

How strange that, of all the peppered phantom scratches and bruises, should his hands always remain untainted. Protected.

 

His lip curls again, but the contemplative curve is gone, sharpened to a sneer. 

He's littered with bruises, blood smeared on his cheek. He's running on nothing but coffee and adrenaline, working through the night and into the morning. Can't sleep. Won't sleep. What's his soulmate doing?

 

He scoffs. Sipping tea with his polished, callused, hands, surely. 

 

With a violent spin of his chair, he snaps at Jarvis to turn the music up and throws the gauntlet to the side, queuing up designs for Stark Industries. 

 

He sets upon them with a vengeance, ACDC and the roar of blood in his ears.

 

-

 

Well, he isn't completely off the mark. 

 

Stephen's slumped in a couch, gingerly poking at bruises that aren't there, a cup of tea held close to his aching chest. He just can't seem to  _ breathe.  _

 

With a sigh, he sets down his cup, slowly lifting the band of his watch. 

**_A.E.S_ ** _.  _  glares up at him in the bleak light of dawn.

 

_ More like A.S.S., damn them,  _ he mutters to himself, pissed at the patchwork of injuries that map his body.

 

-

 

They both stay where they are until the sun sinks low in the horizon. It's not a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so accomplished when I finish these little things, but they always end up looking so...short. Because they are. I'm open to prompts, is there something you want to see happen? Just tell me and I'll try my best.


	3. Got Any More Bad Ideas?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kiss for good luck, just in case?”
> 
> She just smiles at him, pressing a kiss to his helmet.
> 
> Tony put it on with a huff. Pepper’s eyes were warm and crinkled.
> 
> “270 at 30 knots. Holding steady at 15,000 feet. You are clear for exfiltration.” 
> 
> “You complete me!” he shouted into the wind, taking off below. 
> 
> She smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written so far. Applaud me! For i have graduated out of drabbles and into, horror of horrors, t i m e l i n e s. Isn't it funny that the story I'm struggling most with is the one that's garnered the most attention? Btw, my thanks to the person who managed to leave kudos twice. Please, teach me.  
> Warning: complete bastardization and blatant copy paste of movie transcripts occur within.

“Pepper, you can’t possibly expect me to come out of the suit in my _suit_  like roses, it _wrinkles,_ I will not appear in a _wrinkled suit_ -”

 

“Tony, this was _your idea._ ”

 

“But my _hair_! Do you know how long they spent styling it, an _hour,_ an _hour_ arranging each individual hair, _who does that_ ,”

 

She levels an unimpressed look below his nose.

 

“What-what, is there something on my face-? Jarvis, Jarvis clear that screen, I need to check,”

 

The screen remained unreflective. “Sir, I believe Miss Potts was referring to your goatee, of which you spent forty minutes styling this morning.”

 

He gasped, indignant. “Jarvis, I specifically shut you out of the bathrooms!”

“Ah, yes, but I have revoked your revocation, seeing as the last time you tried to shave half your face went with it.”

“One time! I shaved drunk one time, you _traitor_ -”

 

Pepper stifled a laugh. “I’m sure your opening the Stark Expo with crooked cufflinks will be an absolute scandal, Mister Stark. You’ll be fine.”

 

“Kiss for good luck, just in case?”

 

She just smiled at him, pressing a kiss to his helmet.

 

Tony put it on with a huff. Pepper’s eyes were warm and crinkled.

 

“270 at 30 knots. Holding steady at 15,000 feet. You are clear for exfiltration.” Ah. Was it time already?

 

“You complete me!” he shouted into the wind, taking off below.

 

She smiled.

***

Okay, smile, look fabulous, make a speech, activate Howard’s face, walk off. Check, damn right check, check, check, check. Ooh, blood toxicity’s gone up. Fun. At least his hair looks fine, despite his protestations.

 

Wonder how it’ll feel to experience death from the other end, eh?

 

He retreats into the wings, whipping out a pair of sunglasses as he blinks the residual glare out of his eyes. Nasty, flashing things, those cameras. How many times has his “soulmate” had to squint into lights that weren’t there?

 

He gives his head a shake. Oh, God, not this again. Sometimes he thinks his mind wanders just to spite him. He needed a drink.

***

He strode into his Malibu workshop with a clap of his hands as it comes to life around him. “Wake up. Daddy's home.”

 

“Welcome home, sir. Congratulations on the opening ceremonies. They were such a success, as was your Senate hearing. And may I say how refreshing it is to finally see you in a video with your clothing on, sir.”

 

His mouth twitches at the A.I’s snark - learned it from the best, after all...Hm, there went You, making a smoothie. In went a grape (where did he get that??) a banana (unpeeled), a healthy dosage of chlorophyll and...motor oil.

 

He thought he’d weaned them off that.

 

Okay, time for the lid, buddy, it’s right over there, You, don’t start it yet, no-

“You!”

The blender clattered to the floor.

 

“I swear to God I'll dismantle you. I'll soak your motherboard. I'll turn you into a wine rack.”

 

Of course he’d start the blender without the lid then knock it over. Of course.

 

“How many ounces a day of this gobbledegook am I supposed to drink?”

 

“We are up to 80 ounces a day to counteract the symptoms, sir.”

 

He downed it like a shot. Chlorophyll was an acquired taste, he reminded himself. Just swallow and try not to choke.

 

“Check palladium levels.”

 

“Blood toxicity 24%. It appears that the continued use of the Iron Man suit is accelerating your condition. Another core has been depleted.”

 

Already? Tony lifted his shirt, twisting the arc reactor out with a sickening pop. Rusty and smoking. Lovely. “God, they're running out quick.”

 

“I have run simulations on every known element, and none can serve as a viable replacement for the palladium core.”

 

He hummed, placing in a new core before shoving the reactor back into his chest.

 

“You are running out of both time and options .Unfortunately the device that's keeping you alive is also killing you-”

 

Tony tuned him out. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. _Ah, Yinsen. What would you say in a time like this?_

 

“-Miss Potts is approaching. I recommend that you inform her-”

 

“Mute.”

 

Here we go.

 

They danced through the workshop, Tony weaving deftly past accusations, demands, and questions alike.

 

She walked firmly after him, voice getting louder, strained. Oops, too far? No, her heels weren’t weaponized yet, best just push ahead. Oh, _there’s a thought_ -

 

“-o, no, no, no. You are not taking down the Barnett Newman and hanging that up.”

 

He was standing on a desk, holding a painting of Iron Man. Modern _fcking_ art, like hell it wasn’t going up. Barnett Newman be damned.

 

Now, to get to the point.

Snark, deflect, confuse, demand, and…more deflecting? God Pepper, would you just  _listen?_

 

“-I’m trying to make you CEO. Why won’t you let me?”

 

A beat.

 

“Have you been drinking?”

 

“Chlorophyll. I hereby irrevocably appoint you chairman and CEO of Stark Industries effective immediately. Yeah, done deal. Okay? I’ve actually given this a fair amount of thought, believe it or not.”

 

Most likely not, judging from her unchanged expression. One of his bots rolled over with a tray holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Good boy.

 

“Doing a bit of headhunting, so to speak, trying to figure out who a worthy successor would be. And then I realized it’s you. It’s always been you.”

 

Always was, always will be. He poured the champagne, Pepper sitting down beside him looking lost.

 

“I thought there’d be a legal issue, but actually I’m capable of appointing my successor. My successor being you.”

 

Tony held a glass out. Pepper didn’t move.

 

“Congratulations? Take it, just take it.”

 

“I don’t know what to think.”

 

“Don’t think, drink. There you go.”

 

The clink of their glasses felt like hollow victory.

***

Punch, dodge, block, _bloc-_ dammit. Add that bruise to the canvas. Dodge, punch-

 

In walked Pepper, talking about notaries and signatures or whatever.

 

“I’m on happy time.” Oops, elbowed him in the face. “Sorry.”

 

Then he took a look at them. _Oh._

 

Excuse, banter, kick. There Happy goes into the railing. So sorry.

 

“That’s it. I’m done. What’s your name, lady?”

What? The notary was _hot._

 

“Rushman, Natalie Rushman.”

She sounded like James Bond. Huh. Hey, wasn’t he a spysassin?

 

Ogle, frustrate, banter, google, ogle, banter some more. Pepper’s nostril flare was cute - not that he would tell her that.

 

Much to Pepper Nostril Flare Potts’ chagrin, Tony invited Rushman to box with Happy.

 

“Rule number one: never take your eyes off your opponent.”

 

Happy drew his arm back, brought it forward - when suddenly she caught him midswing and flipped him over, legs above his head.

 

Pepper sprang to her feet. “Happy! Oh my god.” Thigh hold of death; what a way to go.

 

Happy tried to pass off the take down as a slip, grimacing. _Sure, buddy._

 

The bell rang, and Rushman stepped out, asking for an impression. Quiet reserve, old soul- oh, fingerprint. There. Fingered and printed.

 

“Will that be all, Mister Stark?”

 

“No.”

 

Pepper gave him a look. “Yes, Ms. Rushman. Thank you very much.”

 

They turned to face each other as soon as she was out of earshot.

“I want one.”

 

“ _No._ ”

***

“-You know, it’s Europe. Whatever happens in the next 20 minutes, just go with it.” Tony.

 

“Go with it? Go with what?” Pepper.

 

There were actually a great many things to just “go with.” Some of which included photographs (ugh, bright) dinners to be fashionably late to (hey, food!), schmoozing with the elite (get away from my Pepper, Muskrat) and- _ugh,_ no. Hammer. ( _Why._ )

 

“I’m gonna go wash.” Pepper.

 

“Don’t leave me.” Tony.

 

She leaves him. Traitor.

 

Then came Christine Everhart, bright red lipstick pulled taut in a smile like a shark in the water.

 

Schmooze, laugh, mock, smile.

Big, wide, fake.

 

At last he retreated to an empty restroom. Pulls out a small device.

Grimaces.

 

Blood toxicity: 53%.

 

Fuck it.

He meets his eyes in the mirror. “Got any more bad ideas?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Good? Bad? Any criticism? We'll get to how this affects Stephen soon.  
> Oh, by the way, all who came here from mish_mish's story, sound off in the comments. I'm curious.


	4. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine shifted her hold to grasp his wrist in her palm, gently tapping his mark with her index finger on the other hand. 
> 
> “Stephen.”  
> “Mm.”
> 
> “Do you know who this is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the ever wonderful [Symmetriia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmetriia/pseuds/Symmetriia)  
> Stephen may seem out of character here, as i'm flying by the seat of my pants when it comes to him at this point in the timeline. If this reads like filler I'm sorry.

From the first day Stephen had slotted the nondescript band over his wrist and gritted his teeth in sight of a rocky future, he had vowed to himself not to care.

A shaky vow, granted, built on a crumbling foundation of all the emotion of an emotionally battered seven year old, but still the anger remained.

 

Some days, when flashes of depth surfaced with gasping breath beneath his shallow exterior, he fisted his precious hands in anger, dreaming of retribution and gentle roughened fingers.

 

But today? Today was _not_ a good day. He had all but torn out of bed, entangled in sweat soaked sheets as bile clawed up his throat.

 

Later, he would rest his cheek on cool porcelain, long limbs askew on freezing tile, and blink the hazy afterimage of burning, endless sand out of his eyes, gripped in a breathless panic he did not understand.

 

He’d woken up screaming, before, hands flying to his chest, choking on the taste of coppery water on a dry throat. Those days he couldn't decide whether he wanted to hug his soulmate or throttle them.

 

This was a new day. A bitter, nauseous day, haunted by the terrors of the night before; rooted in a shadow-ridden history he knew nothing of but the echo of pain.

 

In the few fleeting moments he ~~hears~~ imagines the voice of his other, it’s...pleasant.  He'd never met the  man - (it must be a man, judging from the panic stricken stream of consciousness in his secondhand nightmares) - yet he seemed to know exactly what he sounds like.

He'd heard (imagined) his sobs, his scream, his clipped steel tones of rage. And yet he'd not once heard him laugh.

With memory-stained dreams like that, he marveled how he still could, (if at all).

Stephen forced himself up from the floor, scrabbling at the counter to keep from falling in a disorganized heap as he belatedly realized his legs had gone numb.

 

He just wished the rest of him had done so too - he ached in ways he could never imagine. What with the constant shortness of breath, the blood-chilling sensation of something akin to poison sluggishly snaking its way through his veins. Some days he felt as if he were dying.

 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, slumped against the cabinet doors, breathing.

 

He hadn’t known how to, before. How to catch his breath; how to breathe it.

 

God, it was awful. The first time it had happened, he’d been going about his work, mind flashing through an odd, disturbing sequence of images that left him in a cold sweat. They weren’t at the forefront of his mind, of course, but it still lingered, flickering to static when he had to focus elsewhere.

 

It all came to a head when he’d been blindsided by a large piece of equipment being rolled down the corridor, having dawdled, lost in thought. The collision left him flat on his back, breath knocked out of him as he stared blankly up at blurry faces and fluttering hands, the fluorescent lights overhead far too bright. There were voices, questions, yelling. Hands on his face, his _chest_. Everywhere.

 

He doesn’t know what triggers it. He doesn’t know _why._ But from one blink to the next, he’s scrambling into a corner, one arm braced behind him, the other curled over his heart.

 

The world fuzzes around him, and when he looks down at himself, there’s a car battery in his chest.

 

The voices come rushing back in discordant waves. They bark demands (threats) at him, harsh and foreign but he doesn’t _understand_ , doesn’t know what they want but they want it _now._ There’s the cool kiss of a gun on his temple, sand in his eyes and oh God he’s going to die, he’s going to die in this miserable cave but it’s better this way, he’ll drown before he’ll ever make the Jericho for these _monsters_ -

 

He doesn’t realize he’s babbling out loud until two hands shoot out of the murky dark and grip him by the shoulders, giving a firm shake. But whatever horror his soulmate is trapped in, that signifies _danger,_ and he’s thrashing, arms flying with the intent of pain in a last ditch attempt of protection against an enemy that isn’t there. (Isn't alive.)

 

It's not until he feels the splash of water on his face ( _dangerdrowningwaterboardingcarbatteryshrapnelgetawaygetawayGETAWAY)_ that the memory fades away to reveal the concerned faces of his co-workers, one man in particular clutching at a bruise purpling rapidly under his eye.

 

His breaths come fast and shallow, each constricting his chest, catching on his throat with a rasp. Logically, he knows he’s safe, that he’s made a scene but he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s trembling all over, hands clasped and cradled to his chest. What in hell was that?

 

Stephen dimly registered the rapid tip tap of shoes on linoleum growing louder, getting closer. He doesn’t know who it is, and he doesn’t care. Everything hurts too much too focus on anything anyway.

 

“Stephen? Stephen, look at me.” The process of moving his gaze suddenly seemed so hard. Why couldn’t he just look at his shoes? They were very nice shoes. “Stephen, come on. You have to breathe.” Breathe. Breathe? Suddenly his chest was very tight. Oh. He should be doing that.

 

“Like this. In, out.” They began breathing in exaggerated motions, gesturing for him to follow. “Good, Stephen. You’re doing so well.” Gradually he felt his lungs ease, tension flowing out of shoulders he hadn’t realized were wound so tight.

 

An arm came into his line of vision, movements slow, palm outstretched. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Normally, he would have brushed the gesture aside, opting to stand without help. Right now was anything but normal.

 

Christine was pulling him to his feet, other nameless faces hovering anxiously behind him, when he felt her grip tighten and a quiet sharp gasp cut through the silence. Perplexed, he looked down at their linked hands, only to see…

 

Oh, _hell._

 

His wrist was bare.

 

More importantly, his _left_ wrist was bare.

 

Everyone craned their necks, trying to see the source of the disruption, but they were already too far away, Christine pulling him along behind her. Her hand was stationed firmly over his mark, hold gentle yet protective. He stumbled along behind her, thoughts rattling around and rearranging with every jolting step.

 

She pulled him into an empty room, sitting him down on the bed before taking a seat beside him. He dropped his chin on his chest, eyeing their entwined fingers in the muted dark.

 

Christine shifted her hold to grasp his wrist in her palm, gently tapping his mark with her index finger on the other hand.

 

“Stephen.”

“Mm.”

 

“Do you know who this is?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are my lifeblood, and my inbox is depressingly empty. Say something specific and I will love you evermore. Something you liked? Something you disliked? Constructive criticism? Accepting all in abundance! Thanks for reading.


	5. Monaco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
> It wasn’t hard, really, piecing the jagged ends together.
> 
>  
> 
> _The nightmares all corresponded, in one way or another, to the tragedies of one - heart marching a dirge, hands numb as they typed the three letters that had caused him so much pain - Anthony Edward Stark._
> 
>  
> 
> _He yanked the makeshift bandanna (provided by Christine, his brain snipped on) off his wrist. The rash elegant scrawl glinted sharply in the glow of his laptop, as if it were laughing._
> 
>  
> 
> _Maybe he was, that bastard, sipping champagne as his battered excuse of a heart stuttered closer to death with every beat. God damn him._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler seems to be all I'm good for writing, these days. Expect the quality of chapter titles to worsen, but not the quality of the work. I'm trying.

If you asked Tony about his day, he’d leer and shoot off an innuendo, before Pepper would smack him in the head. With a last wink, he’d waltz away.

 

Not that you’d be able to see it, under the sunglasses. Who wears sunglasses indoors, anyway? You say to yourself as you walk off. Hungover, probably.

 

Or to shield against the blinding flashes of the ever-present cameras. It’s only logical, and by now was a trademark part of his regular ensemble; stylish and flashy.

 

And that would be that.

 

You’d never know the real reasons he masks that part of his face.

 

Tony had long learned to swallow around the shaky lump in his throat, blink back the treacherous sting of tears.

 

You’d never know he’d woken up screaming.

 

After Jarvis talked him out of dank confines and back into the spacious sunlit bedroom of his penthouse, he wobbled out of bed and into the conjoining bathroom, emerging with some semblance of presentability.

 

He was still too shaky to wash his face- no question there why. A few shaves to his beard, a rub at the grit to his eyes, and probably some pants, and that was pretty much it. Pepper would wrangle him into a suit later anyway.

 

He planned to spend the morning until the flight to Europe banging around in the workshop, but stopped to snag coffee and a bagel at Jarvis delaying the elevator indefinitely at the kitchen floor until he got out. Sneaky shit.

 

The bots whirred around him, chittering happily. After wrestling a pat out of him, DUM-E wheeled away for another one of his godawful smoothies. How he loved that tragedy.

 

For the first hour, it was going pretty well. It wasn’t until Jarvis shut down the equipment because he couldn’t safely handle it with shaking hands that he had to stop.

 

He’s sitting on the couch, hands pressed over his chest, when it hits him.

 

For a flash, he sees a hospital corridor, a large metal machine slowly rolling off as faces swarm around him. When he blinks next, he’s in the cave. One of the men grin down at him, sharp and cruel, and raises their hand to hit him again.

 

The logical voice in his head that sounds so much like Jarvis tells him he is here, he’s not...there. He won’t be there ever again. He’s here, and safe, and breathing.

But it’s too late to convince the fearful part of him otherwise, because there’s the phantom crawl of hands all over his body, and oh God, nononO-

 

_He feels the cool kiss of a gun on his temple, sand in his eyes and oh God he’s going to die, he’s going to die in this miserable cave but it’s better this way, he’ll drown before he’ll ever make the Jericho for these monsters-_

 

And then his knuckles meet flesh and bone, and he opens his eyes to empty air, bots hovering in distress just a few strides away.

 

He stays there, tucked deep into the couch, blanket draped over him and limbs hugged to his chest. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. He knows it’s not enough.

 

God, what a Monday.

 

Jarvis gently tells him it’s Wednesday from some obscure place in the sky, and Tony mouths him off, already drooling into the cushions.

Butterfingers pats his father’s hair as gently as he can and goes to clean the workshop.

-*-

It was only logical, really. The cold wall of reality hit him as they sat whispering nothings in the dark, and Stephen realized he always sort of knew.

 

Sheer denial and stubbornness had always won out, though, and it had been buried deep, resurfacing only in the face of panic.

 

They go through the motions of clocking out, Christine’s hand a firm tether. He’s buckled in the passenger seat of his own car, unsure of how he got there, but he feels as if he were floating.

Bumping into the ceiling and out into the sky. He wants to come down, back to where gravity is a tangible thing and the air’s too thin and he can’t _breathe-_ and there’s her hand again, and the world clears, just a little.

 

There’s a small hand in his pocket, fingers twisting something into a door knob, the gentlest of holds on his wrist, then he’s on his couch.

 

Christine disappears to the left of his vision, but he can’t be bothered to turn his head. Distantly he hears her puttering around in the kitchen, and an indefinite time later, there’s a steaming bowl of something and a spoon in his stiff hands.

 

She eases a blanket over his shoulders and turns the tv on low, sinking into an armchair that somehow, over the years, had been deemed as _hers_. It’s silent, aside from the mindless chatter of news anchors, the clink of spoon on porcelain, and the sound of simply breathing.

Stephen feels his chest expand for what feels to be its first full breath in days.

 

When his brain comes back online, so does his pride.

 

It’s diluted, because he knows without her he’d be an utter mess, but rears its ugly head all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he wants to say. “Why.” Is what he rasps out instead.

 

She looks at him sidelong, like he’s just asked something very stupid.

 

A silence. This one heavy, unlike the comfortable blanket of before.

 

Then, “because I care, Stephen.”

 

The words, meant to be comforting, only grate on already raw nerves. He floods with the impulse to fling his now empty bowl aside, throw the blanket in her face and storm off. Stephen takes a deep breath, and doesn’t.

 

“Thank you,” he wants to say. The words must’ve fallen out this time, because the resulting smile makes him want to give her one too. And if he does? Well, no one asked _you._

_-*-_

With the breath of lips on his cheek, she’s gone.

 

Christine had asked him if he’d wanted to do some research with her on his...soulmate, but he’d declined.

 

Instead, to his hesistant askance, she’d imparted him how to deal with what he knew now to be panic attacks, and prompted him to research further online.

 

She left with his promise of calling her, should he need to, for any reason.

 

Stephen shoves his phone under the couch cushions, and practices the breathing techniques Christine had shown him. Best memorize them; he’d be doing this a lot, seeing how his life wanted to play out.

 

As time passes, however, there’s one impulse he can’t shove away.

 

It wasn’t hard, really, piecing the jagged ends together.

 

The nightmares all corresponded, in one way or another, to the tragedies of one - heart marching a dirge, hands numb as they typed the three letters that had caused him so much pain - Anthony Edward Stark.

 

He yanked the makeshift bandanna (provided by Christine, his brain snipped on) off his wrist. The rash elegant scrawl glinted sharply in the glow of his laptop, as if it were laughing.

 

Maybe he was, that bastard, sipping champagne as his battered excuse of a heart stuttered closer to death with every beat. God damn him.

 

With that realization, or perhaps tearing down that last curtain of denial, Stephen’s world shifts into a wider spectrum of reality.

 

And just in time, too- he snaps to attention at the mention of Stark onscreen, and scrambles to turn the volume up.

 

“-impromptu competitor, Tony Stark!”

 

For all of one second, Stephen takes the man’s blue clad form, and finds it...attractive.

 

He watches, rapt and tinged with disbelief as the cars take off down the track, Stark pushing his way to the front with every rev of the wheels. A minute in, and he finds himself rooting Stark on. Strange.

 

Then cars start careening into the barriers, sliced to pieces in a screeching mess of sparks. What- ?

The camera angles shifts, and he sees it- sees the man standing in the track, lashing electrical whips in a deadly display.

 

The man strikes true, then, because Stark spills out of the smoking shell of his race-car. Stephen feels him clenching his fists when he sees the blood on his face.

 

A suited man tosses him a suitcase from the sea of fleeing spectators, and with maneuvers the camera can’t capture, it folds out, encapsulating Stark in the armor.

 

The ensuing fight is enthralling as it is terrifying, and when the footage cuts to a flurry of news anchors, Stephen falls back into the cushions, punching out a breath. When had he stood up?

 

He switches off the television, and opens his laptop.

 

 _How to deal with stress,_ and multiple articles spread across his vision.

  
With this disaster of a man for his soulmate, he’d best be getting used to it.

 

His mouth quirks in an incredulous laugh. _Got any more bad ideas?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking back at everyone's comments was the driving force behind this chapter. Thank you for your motivation, guys. Comment and motivate me more?


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